


Once Seen, Always Known

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a talisman wrapped in fine muslin, more than four thousand years old, and ends in a pile of burnt husks. Sam comes to with his hands palm out. Something is inside him, something old, and it carries a message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Seen, Always Known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Berettasalts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berettasalts/gifts).



> Please excuse historical anachronisms for the purposes of the story.

It starts with a talisman wrapped in fine muslin, more than four thousand years old, and ends in a pile of burnt husks. There had been no time for the usual. News articles of the dead, a conversation in suits and ties, there was no brush with the monster and retreat to lore.

Sam comes to with his hands palm out. Dean is on the ground with half-dry blood across his jaw.

“The hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, ain’t that just awesome.”

The drive back to the bunker is quiet. Dean presses the button to the tape deck, but Whitesnake is kept low and Sam’s attention is caught between the dark window and his knees. Parked in the underground garage, they drag their bags out of the trunk, motel supplies unused.

“’Least we don’t have to rush packing next time.”

Dean’s glare isn’t impressed.

When they settle in the library, two beers for each hand safely on Dean’s half of the table, they speak again.

“You’re seriously telling me you dunno what happened.”

“I’m telling you, Dean. Whatever that thing was knocked me out, and the next thing I know, I’m looking down at you.” Sam hesitates. “Dean—”

“You can cut that out right now,” he snaps.

It doesn’t matter that months have worn by. Gadreel’s scars linger and Winchesters never can learn a lesson.

“I’m just saying—”

“Well just don’t,” Dean says, “because it wasn’t me. Unless you’re spreading ’em for Cas these days, but I don’t think he even knows what roofies are.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

The silence is uncomfortable. Sam grabs one of Dean’s empty bottles and uses his nails to pick at the labels.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s with the—?”

Dean gestures to Sam’s neck and frowns. For a moment, Sam tenses, half-expects for Dean to use his thumb to flick the end of his nose and grin. He looks down, but doesn’t see it.

“What?”

“The necklace. Gold, Sam, really?”

“Gold?”

Sam grabs the front of his shirt and tugs it down. There’s a shine that he doesn’t recognise and a sudden warmth that he’s ignored all day. Straight up from the chair, he tries to yank it off, stumbles back on his feet and panics. He can’t register Dean’s snap-wide eyes or the rush of Dean’s hands to his shoulders, breath on breath.

“I can’t get it off,” Sam pants, “it’s stuck, Dean, I can’t—”

“It’s okay, just hold on, we have to—”

Dean’s frozen.

“Dean?”

Sam slips out of his grip and stares. His stomach rolls. He can move but Dean is trapped. When he looks around, there’s a clock that’s stopped its ticks.

“Dean!”

“You’re welcome, Sam. So do us all a favour and relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

\--

 

When the iced moment and that shadowed voice disappears, Sam finds himself back under Dean’s hands. The panic’s gone, but he doesn’t hear Dean’s words long enough for Dean to start shouts of his name. It’s a rare blessing that Sam can coax them both into research. It’s no angel, the wards against demonic possession are unmarred and the talisman is their only lead. They spend hours over different books before Sam realises that every time he’s compared the talisman’s markings, they’ve been upside down. He takes his cell to click a picture and scowls when Dean smirks.

It makes their search much easier.

“It’s Hieratic,” Sam breathes.

“It’s what?”

“Hieroglyphics. It’s Egyptian.”

“Wait,” Dean says, “they’re tiny little fancy pictures, right? Where the hell can you see pictures on that thing? They’re, I dunno, squiggly. Things.”

“It’s the style. It’s like cursive writing—joined up handwriting.”

“On gold.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, it makes sense. Lapidary hieratic worked, too, and gold’s a malleable metal. Considering how yellow and how fine it is, then it’d be pretty easy working the text onto it.”

“You wanna try that again in English?”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s Egyptian.”

Dean snorts. “Figures. All these years and we finally get ourselves all the Curse of King Tut.”

“We don’t know if it’s a curse. I mean, all it did was stop the monster—whatever it was.”

“Yeah, and it might be sucking your soul inside out to do it.”

That is a point. Sam doesn’t answer. Instead, he fetches books from another shelf and spreads them across the table, on top of all the others. As much as Dean wants to help, he’s useless. It takes fifteen minutes of his subtle hints towards food before Sam spots a relieved glance and an offer to throw something together. Dean’s nervous energy and fidgeted hands have never given Sam enough of a break to concentrate on translation.

When Dean returns, a bacon salad sandwich and more beer beside Sam, a bacon-bacon sandwich for himself, more of their work is quiet.

“Hotepsekhemwy.”

Dean frowns. “Gesundheit?”

“The Hieratic. I think it’s a name.”

“Okay, so—?”

“I think it translates as, maybe, ‘peaceful in powers’? ‘Pleasing in powers’?” Sam hesitates. “‘The two powers are reconciled’?”

“Is that a name or a spell?”

“True names have power. Some cultures think that there’s a lot of magic in a person’s name.”

“Again: so?”

“This was the name of a pharaoh. From what I remember, there’s not much known about him outside of his name, and maybe that he had a son.”

“Okay, Howard Carter, what’s that mean?”

Sam taps his pen against his lips. “This here means ‘remember.’ And you see the way that curves around the top, there? Flat? That could mean ‘bound.’”

“Say the name again.”

“What?”

“Hotepsekhemwy?”

“What?”

“The name.”

“What about it?”

“You just asked me to say it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Louder, Sam.”

“Dean—”

“What now?”

“If you like the sound of it, say it yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The name.”

“Yes, the name, Sam.”

“Hotepsekhemwy!”

There’s light, there’s pain, and Sam collapses.

 

\--

 

Weeks go by and there’s nothing that they can do. Sam had woken an hour after his faint and no more information could be found. After days of rest, even he had started to resent the bunker, his bedroom, his bed. Dean hadn’t been content to stay locked up, but for Sam, his health, even he had kept his complaints to a minimum.

It had been a small-scale zombie infestation that had drawn them out. Sam had argued that he wasn’t weak, that he hadn’t been extra tired or in pain, and had flashed a hurt look when Dean had tried to deny him. They had rolled into town, stopped by the local morgue and found the outbreak.

For the second time, Sam has found himself surrounded by corpses and the shock of Dean’s expression.

“Dude.”

Sam clears his throat. “I, uh. Again?”

“Yeah. Again.”

“‘The son of Ray commands you, begone.’”

“What?”

“That’s what you said. Who the fuck is Ray?”

“Get in the car, Dean.”

“Sam?”

“I know what this is.”

 

\--

 

“So, hold up,” Dean says. “Your fancy-ass necklace has a pharaoh in it.”

“Maybe once. But the ancient Egyptians saw their rulers as gods. They believed that their pharaohs literally were the sons of Re, the sun god.”

“Like Osiris.”

“Exactly.”

“So is necklace-god here gonna be pissed that we ganked his brother?”

“I don’t know how long he’s been trapped in there. For all we know, he has no idea what’s been going on outside.”

“Except he’s inside you, right now, and probably knows everything you know.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe. But it doesn’t mean he’s bad. I mean, he did kill monsters.”

“That put you in danger.”

“And that’s a bad thing now?”

Dean’s growl is enough to make Sam raise an eyebrow. He watches Dean pace, fists clenched at his sides.

“What’d you want me to do, huh? Send him a fruit basket before we kick his ass? Sam, ancient gods don’t get locked up in fucking jewellery for being too nice. We don’t even know where it came from.”

“That’s—not exactly true.”

A grimace crosses Sam’s face. His reading through the Men of Letters’ catalogues had made reference to a supposedly powerful amulet, complete with a black and white photograph. Aside from that, the notes had been a failure. Despite experiments with the amulet, nothing had activated it. Even witchcraft, old blood and bones, the touch of an object from a similar time, even one of the Men of Letters wearing it, had given nothing.

“So, for some reason, Ho-sek-me decided to just, what, appear and wrap himself around your neck?”

“Looks like.”

“Like I said. Awesome. Why now?”

“Now? I don’t know. He couldn’t do it when I was occupied, since he can use my body whenever he wants.”

Guilt streaks across Dean and bunches in his shoulders.

“Look, Dean, there’s nothing else we can do. I’ve never seen this kind of magic before. There’s nothing in the bunker to even suggest that they had any idea about stuff like this, and the Men of Letters were around when there was that huge archaeological craze for pharaohs.”

“So, what, we just keep on keeping on and pretend this ain’t a problem?”

“What else can we do? Even if it’s for his own selfish reasons, he’s killing monsters and hasn’t hurt anyone innocent.”

“Yet.”

“Okay, yet. I’m not saying ignore this, but we can’t just wait around with nothing.”

As far as Sam can see it, Dean’s grunt counts as a win.

 

\--

 

It becomes routine. A monster hunt begins and when they find it, Sam’s overcome with power. The monster dies. On one occasion, they split up and Dean ends up bound to a beam, ready for a witch to use his magic to tear out his insides. Sam finds him, is overwhelmed, and when he comes back to himself, Dean scowls.

“That was close,” Sam says.

“Yeah, yeah. I could handle it.”

The jibe is too easy. “Are you jealous?”

“What?”

“I saved you.”

“No, your boyfriend did.”

“You’re allowed to be jealous, Dean. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Sam’s laugh echoes around the barn. Dean grumbles all the way through his diner breakfast. Life isn’t easy, but for once, it feels good.

 

\--

 

“I would like it if we could talk, Sam.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“I have to open your mind.”

“I can’t see. I can’t move.”

“There’s no dream. Only our voices. I’m with you now.”

“Hotepsekhemwy?”

“That’s not how you pronounce it.”

“So tell me.”

“The power translates. You could only hear the meaning.”

“Why me?”

“We’re connected, Sam.”

“How?”

“Blood.”

“By blood? You’re—you’re an ancestor?”

“I am.”

“Why are you here?”

“You set my soul free.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

“I’m not your enemy. I kill yours to thank you.”

“That’s what that is?”

“I won’t take your body. Not like the winged ones. I want to protect you. Watch over you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. You need to move on. Go to heaven, or—or wherever you go.”

“Do you remember, Sam? The sand, the papyrus? The smudge of black to protect your eyes? Our responsibility to our people?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have been reborn, Sam. Over and over again. Yet here we are, reunited.”

“I was there—? I was—?”

“You can see me now. When I regain my strength, you will see me again.”

Sam sits up in bed and blinks until he can see the grey outlines of his bedroom around him. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear a harsh birdsong. His stomach clenches when he recognises the call.

It’s an ibis.

 

\--

 

Sam doesn’t tell Dean. He ignores the dream and continues as he has. Between hunts, they fall into routine. Together, they sit through bad sitcoms and interesting documentaries. With a single glance, they keep words to themselves and sit through programmes about pyramids and mummification.

It takes a while before Dean leaves to go by himself, spend a little time at a nearby bar. Sam waves him off so he can read, spend a little time alone. By eight, he ventures out of his room to grab a snack and hears noise down a corridor. He tenses. Glad for the gun in his waistband, Sam yanks it out and clicks the safety off. Each step is careful, controlled, as the clatter and footsteps become louder. His heart pounds. His hands are steady. He walks into the kitchen and stops.

“Dean?”

Dean isn’t dressed in jeans, his usual plaid or even a t-shirt. Instead, he’s draped in cotton, off-white but clean, and when he turns, Sam can see each obvious difference. His hair is darker. The green of his eyes is a deep brown. Even his skin is brushed honey, nose and lips a touch fuller.

The gun that had slowly lowered is raised high again.

“Who the hell are you?”

“You already know who I am, Sam. I said that I would manifest.”

“Hotep—the pharaoh. You can’t be. You’re in my head.”

“And also here.”

“That’s not possible.”

“My power is returning to me, thanks to you. Our connection. It is good to see you again.”

“I don’t know who you are. Don’t play games with me.”

Hotepsekhemwy lifts his palm and Sam’s gun drops to the ground. He walks forward, barefoot, and narrows his eyes. Closer, far too close and Sam can’t move. Can’t flee. He can’t flinch when firm, warm hands clasp his shoulders, or slide up to cup his face. His own eyes widen as he feels the press of Hotepsekhemwy’s mouth against his own.

“I know your old soul,” Hotepsekhemwy smiles, “as you know my new.”

“You’re—you said you were my ancestor.”

“An ancestor. And to see you like this. By my side again.”

“I’ll never be by your side.”

“You already are. I swore, no matter who I became, I would protect you. I’m glad to see that I kept my promise.”

“You’re—”

“Not needed. I know.”

Sam reels. He watches as Hotepsekhemwy drops his hands, confused by that fond quirk of his lips.

“Sam,” he goes on, “I’ve seen all. I’ve witnessed your life through your eyes, your memories, and you are still in pain.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you. I’ve always known you. And I think that I know myself, the soul that I became.”

“You’re not him. You’re not Dean.”

He laughs. “No. I died and my godhood trapped. I have tried to reach you since you stepped through this fortresses’ walls.”

“You’re not making any sense. You’re still not making any sense.”

“Dean? He is my _ka_ , reborn. This vision that you see is my stolen _akh_ , freed.” Hotepsekhemwy sighs. “That is not important now, _imi-ib_. I found you and wanted to protect you. But you already have your protection. My soul could never, would never, abandon you.”

There’s quiet as they watch each other. Sam wants to berate him, deny him, but he can’t. There’s no manipulative turn to his words, no demands. There aren’t any calls to believe, just his explanations.

“I love you,” Hotepsekhemwy murmurs. “He loves you. I feel his guilt and see the worry that you miss. The fear that he is not enough and your fear that you may lose him. And you—how strongly you love, Sam. How strongly you have always loved.”

The second kiss is almost expected. Sam fights the heavy swallow and finds that he returns it, relaxes into their brush of tongues and shared breaths.

“He’s, he’s my brother. He—”

“Will always belong to you. As do I.”

Hotepsekhemwy cups Sam’s face in his hands, their last kiss chaste.

“Keep my amulet,” he says. “Say my name and I will come.”

When Sam finds the words that he wants to say, his pharaoh is gone.

 

\--

 

The bunker’s main door clangs when Dean barges in. Sam hurries to the foot of the stairs and watches him as he sways down each one. A jump and he takes Dean into his arms, clings to him, smells nothing but second-hand cigarettes and beer. There are no lipstick marks on his neck and no cheap perfume stuck to his shirt.

“Sam?”

“I love you. Okay? I just—you’re a real asshole sometimes, but I need you and I—I love you.”

It takes a moment. Dean’s confused, Sam can see it, but he holds Sam to his chest and his laugh rumbles, soft.

“Whatever this is about—me too, okay, Sammy? Me, too.”


End file.
